in the glazed morning I saw my fetch
golden in the green water
all the shoreline self-flagellated
I lifted my hand
it lifted my hand
in the shadow in the shade
I felt the lilt of the festival
in the footpath of my bereavement
I wanted to flick myself away
a sparrow between metropolises
but my fetch dragged me
back to the goal of a self
and still we are golden
and mangle our walk
crossing this tired planet
hostages for each other
a vortex of hints between us
but agreeing we aren't dead
or at least alive
to the feast of one another